


3AM

by BuckysBabe



Series: Trying to make sense of it all (with you by my side) [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:56:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckysBabe/pseuds/BuckysBabe
Summary: Nature had decreed that three in the morning was the hour when people with problems ranging from the unmanageable size of their mortgage to true manic depression would wake to face their personal hell. Optimism required daylight. Despair thrived in the dark. - CHAMELEON by Ken McClure





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again everyone! This is another piece I wrote quite a while ago but its something that I actually quite like and thought would fit very well with Bucky. The things Bucky says are lyrics from one of my favourite songs (10,000 points to anyone who knows it!) but other than that the work is quite generic. I have a thing for writing sad fics so I'm sorry if this isn't what you were really looking for but I find that in life sadness is often more beautiful than happiness.
> 
> Anyway I'm going to keep re-writing old things while I'm churning out the chaptered fic I'm working on at the moment so I'm sorry you aren't be getting any new material at the moment - I promise its on its way though!
> 
> Request are open on my tumblr - itsbuckysbabe.

Bucky lay awake in bed. Again. The clock beside him read precisely 3am. Again. His head swam in his own voice, confused and scared, screaming at him about the past and the present and the future. It felt like he was falling. Again.  
Bucky had been struggling to sleep properly for the past few weeks. He spent his days smiling and laughing and acting normal. Sometimes he even managed to fool himself into happiness, falling asleep with a semblance of calm around him but every night, at the same time, he awoke to the actuality that was his life.

He felt like he couldn't think but at the very same time his head was racing with thoughts; never quite fast enough to keep up with the impending tomorrow but at the same time too fast to stop in the contingent today.

“I wanted to become happy and strong but why am I getting weaker? Where am I going? I’m going here and there but I always come back here... Yeah, I’ll probably flow somewhere... Is there an end to this maze?” Bucky asked himself for what felt like the hundredth time this week. This month. This year.

Nothing was going to plan.  
He didn't have a plan.  
Everything was falling apart.  
Nothing had been together in the beginning.

He felt like his life was slipping through the cracks between his finger but if he were to try and hold on; if here were to try and grip back the control he'd lost in the blink of an eye – or maybe had never even had to begin with – he would crush his everything in the harshness of his own fist; in the harshness of life.

Bucky lay awake, as he did every night and he reminisced of times when things were easier. He thought about the days when his life was ruled by a strict schedule. He thought about the days when his life was dictated and instructed and laid out in front of him. He thought about the days when he was woken, and dressed, and fed, and driven, and taught and he realised he had somehow come to miss those days.

He remembered thinking that he felt like a bird in a gilded cage; that all he wanted to do was break free and fly and spread his wings and see the world shrink below him. He remembered thinking that it felt like he couldn't breathe, that he couldn't live. How foolish he was...

“I have a long way to go but why am I running in place? I scream out of frustration but the empty air echoes.... I hope tomorrow will be different from today...” Bucky tried to tell himself. Someone had told him those words once, back when his life hadn’t been an endless repetition and a constant lie. Someone had told him those words and all this time he'd held them dear. He'd memorised them and cherished them and believed. He'd even immortalised in his heart. But these days those very words that had helped him through the darkest days, that had given him hope and anticipation for the future seemed like nothing but lies.

He wished he wasn't here. He wished he never really had been.

“I’m just wishing...” he whispered into the empty night.


End file.
